Florence Nightengale I am not.

Cliff has the flu.

I should point out that I have a sort of weird fear of sickness in the best of times. The word “paranoia” is probably appropriate. Thirty eight weeks pregnant is NOT the best of times, so that paranoia is kicking into overdrive.

My abject fear of sickness is something I have always had, and while having a child tempers it somewhat (Hello, daycare, festering swamp of Germiness!), it remains. I think it is partially just that, hey, duh, no one likes to be sick, but that fact coupled with some bizarre work ethic that means that I am incapable of slowing down until my body actually begins to crumple to the floor on it’s own accord means that I am doubly wary. In the three years since I have had the adorable germ fest we call our Drew, I have called in sick for ME being sick exactly three times. All involving grotesque stomach bugs that rendered me literally physically unable to move off of the bathroom floor. All the colds and sniffles and various other ailments I contracted courtesy of all the kids in his daycare preferring to chew on toys some other runny nosed kid had already chewed on? Miserable, for sure, but I was still trucking it up to work, keepin’ on keepin’ on. No leisurely afternoons on the couch watching reruns of Ellen and bad Lifetime movies for me.

So, poor Cliff. He is really sick. This is, for once, no man cold. But because of my girth and other circumstances – -like Drew’s asthma meaning I am doubly fearful HE will get the flu, my total lack of patience, the fact that I could go into labor at literally any second and then have to deal with thorny questions about exposing a newborn and the rest of the maternity ward to FluDaddy — he’s not getting much by way of tea and sympathy. Instead he gets conversations from across the room, nagging about whether or not he’s on top of his medicine and staying hydrated, and some crazy ass giant pregnant lady following him around with Lysol wipes, swabbing down everything he touches. Sometimes before he even puts it down. If we had Hazmat suits, I feel certain I would be employing them.

I am feeling very pressured. For the flu, it’s best if the Little Man stays put until at least after the weekend. But then we get into a weird place with Drew — he was going to stay at my sisters for the 3 or so days I am in the hospital, but she leaves town Thursday for a week. So if the baby doesn’t come by Monday-ish, then I am going to be hoping he stays put until she gets back and after Drew’s birthday, which is the 19th. Do you sense my controlfreaky side threatening to take over? Yeah, I do, too.

So, zen……………ZEN, dammit! Babies come when they come. Right?

What do those words mean?

The words I am referring to are “It’s just too sweet.”

Hmm? What? Come again?

It’s almost Easter. The most glorious candy holiday of the year. Why do I make this claim? Well………Peeps! Marshmallow Hiding Eggs! Chocolate Covered Marshmallow Eggs! Peeps! (worthy of a second mention!) Jelly Beans! Malted Milk Robins Eggs! Reeses Eggs (with a far superior chocolate to peanut butter ration than any other Reeses item)! Cadbury eggs? Thank you, Easter Bunny, Bawk, Bawk!

I say that there is NO better Calgon moment than sneaking away into a room without a begging child grasping your ankles to slowly savor a row of Pink Bunny Peeps that have been left on the counter to get stale for a few days. Chewy but not fluffy. Sweet, but with the ever so slight bitter aftertaste of red dye #40 (which is why, by the way, PINK is the best peep color, unless you are eating chicks, which have an inferior sugar to mallow ratio and can only be eaten in chicky yellow). Don’t even get me started on the blasphemy of the blue, purple, white, and GREEN?!?!?! Peep nuance is something my family takes damn seriously, in case you hadn’t noticed. 

I admittedly have a sweet tooth. I think I am going to blame it on evolution – humans are wired to like sweets. Rationalization out of the way, I just like sugar. It’s a tough mistress, what with the calories and the risk tooth decay, trust me. But people who claim to not like sweets, or who use that inexplicable “It’s too sweet”………..can they be trusted? Have they lost some essence of humanity in rejecting the life sustaining calories of a Reeses Egg?